Black Licorice
by Angrybee
Summary: Ryuichi has a naughty obsession. Bad Luck has secrets. Is it better to hope...and to never know? Or to find love...and learn the horrible truth?


DISCLAIMER: Gravitation is a story written by Maki Murakami. This is merely a work of fanfiction, and not for profit. In addition, some of the themes in this story may touch on shonen-ai, or the relationship of two men. If this offends you, please do not read this story.

* * *

Black Licorice

_Chapter 1: Chocolate Factory_

* * *

Candy.

In the words of Willy Wonka, "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker." Actually, he was quoting Ogden Nash. I don't know much about Ogden Nash, but I know quite a bit about Willy Wonka. Living in an impenetrable wonderland, sampling sweets, singing silly songs... It seems magical, doesn't it? But, you have to imagine that...in the end...Willy Wonka was a very lonely man.

Alone in the Chocolate Factory, with only the Oompa Loompas. Cute, but, I don't think they were very good conversationalists.

Kumagoro, on the other hand, is an –excellent- conversationalist.

Sometimes, I wonder... What was so special about Charlie? Of all the Golden Tickets Willy Wonka –could- have given out, of all the boys with which he could have shared his vast empire of Everlasting Gobstoppers and Snozberry Wallpaper, why Charlie?

Willy Wonka, literally, had the world –eating- from his hand. But, in the end, he chose someone simple, someone forgotten, someone who could have...very well...ended up alone. Someone with a good heart who had been overlooked all of his short life. Someone giving, without the capacity to be greedy...

Someone who never expected to inherit the dream.

"Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker."

More rum filled bonbons, Kumagoro? No? You must be kidding me; you're giving up –already-? You're –such- a cheap date, na no da.

I like the way the chef arranges them on the plate for me. A happy face. It's so very...inelegant. It's so very –fun-. I can imagine that I'm not sitting in one of the most expensive restaurants in Tokyo. Nope. I'm six years old and sitting at my parents' table, making pictures out of chocolate sprinkles. I'm dreaming of growing up to be a firefighter. Yes. I'd ride in a candy apple red fire engine. Slide down the pole, shimmy into the suit, and go... I'd rescue so many people, and they'd be so thankful. They'd say, "Thank you so much, Sakuma-san. I was scared there for a moment, but then you came along, and everything was alright."

Music, in essence, is a lot like being a firefighter...but without the cool fire engine.

I should get Tohma to put a pole in our stage set.

"The rum candies are good, Sakuma-san?" Shimizu-san asks, smiling softly at me. I come here every week, so I know his name, and he knows mine. Actually, he knew my name the –first- time I came here, and it took me two years to learn his. "Should I box up some to take home?"

"I will eat them from a box. I will eat them in my socks. Any, any time, I can, I will eat them, Shimizu-san!"

He laughs quietly and heads back towards the kitchen to package the rest of the rum candies away for me. Starlite, the restaurant where I am drowning my sorrows in silky confections, is always packed at this time of night. Always overfilled with patrons, so many that women in shimmer-sequin gowns and three inch heels have to stand by the door looking bored while they wait for a table. It's so prestigious that even the president of Tokyo's television station can do no more than sigh deeply and go back to making cellphone calls after asking how much longer the wait will be.

And, above it all, on the balcony where only Tokyo's most elite (or the people Shimizu-san just –happens- to like) sit; I poke at the rum candies and wonder...

What would have happened...

If Charlie didn't like chocolate?

What if Willy Wonka told him he could have everything, the Chocolate Factory, the Oompa Loompas, the Fizzy-Lifting Bubbles...

And Charlie just looked at him like he was crazy and said, "You crack me up, Sakuma-san."

Whispers reach my ears, light as cotton candy, from the dining tables below. Whispers follow me everywhere I go. You can't drown them out by humming, and believe me, I've tried. Whispers make me sad, so I try to smile wider. Whispers make me itchy, so I play with Kumagoro.

"Look, there's Sakuma Ryuichi..."

"Love Nittle Grasper..."

"Why...sitting alone...."

"Last concert....dedicated to....a color?"

Candy Apple Red...like a fire engine...

My heart is burning. Save me. Why won't you save me from being alone? Why won't anyone ever...save –me-?

I clutch Kumagoro to my chest. Tell me a story, Kumagoro. Tell me about Willy Wonka. Tell me that...in the end...

We all get someone with whom we can share our dreams.

* * *

Who is to say when this obsession began? Years ago, I suppose. But, in the end, it feels like an eternity. It has lengthened time, and shortened it. It has bound my heart up in black licorice cord. Such an exotic spice, you can never remember quite...quite how it tastes, until the flavor touches your tongue once again. Candied sadness.

So many candies to chose from, so many pretty tastes to savor. Chocolate, silken and melting, a pool of liquid sienna tinged with cinnamon. Mint, the shuddering coolness, like the first day of Spring, when the kiss of Winter still lingers. Cotton candy, so soft, diaphanous, wispy sugar that dissolves with a touch, a taste, a mere breath. Lemon Drops, with such puckering sourness that you feel it in the back of your jaw. Jelly Beans in so many colors and flavors it makes a person dizzy to try to choose a favorite....

So many candies. I have sampled each. But not a single one can match the congealed dysphoria I experience by merely smelling black licorice.

"Ano...don't you like candy at all?" I asked, trying to hand him the box of Pocky.

"No I..." Always so quiet, so guarded. I imagine him at the center of a whirlwind, unable to see beyond the grey walls of bluster. "I like some candy. Black licorice is my favorite."

Really, I have to say it was the only private thing he's ever shared with us.

And Kumagoro and I, we've kept it close to our hearts. A small seed of hope we've sheltered from the wind and rain.

I couldn't get enough licorice after that. Kumagoro and I, we learned all about it on the internet. Most licorice, these days, isn't even made with licorice at all. It is flavored with anise, instead.

Yes, learning about, and consuming, licorice...has become our –second- obsession.

It's been used for hundred of years for its medicinal properties, thought to aid in digestion, reduce pain, and help those with diabetes. It soothes colds and coughs. It can be used to freshen the breath after a particularly spicy meal.

But, of course, the most famous application of licorice...is to make sweets.

I ordered them from all around the world. Danish Amar Kiks. Katjes-Katzen Ohren from Germany. Blackcurrant Pastilles from Australia. Licorice Scotties from the United States. You can't open a cabinet or drawer in my house without finding a half-eaten bag of black licorice.

I can't even remember if...I'd ever even tried black licorice before the day he told me that it was his favorite. But now...

Whenever I am sad, or lonely, or thinking of him...

I find some small comfort in knowing we are able to share at least this. This tiny drop of knowledge. A paper cut of hope. With a hiss, you raise your sliced finger to your lips and suckle, wishing in vain that the sting will lessen.

Kumagoro says he still prefers chocolate, however.

"The garage on Kokoijumi Street, please, Tazhiko-san," I say quietly as slide into the BMW and bid Starlite adieu. Even now, the scent of sugar cooked with rum still lingers heavy on my breath. I promised Tazhiko-san that I wouldn't drink, and I didn't. Drinking is no fun, anyway, unless you have someone with which to get rowdy and silly.

I'm not forgetting you, Kumagoro. But when –you- get rowdy and silly, you become a troublemaker! Remember the time you stole that expensive watch from that one store? Quite naughty! Here I was, all ready to leave, and you were wearing it like a collar in an attempt to sneak out unnoticed. They almost took us to jail that time, Kumagoro. You –really- should behave yourself and stop playing pranks on me.

Well, yes, I –do- think the watch looked –very- fine on you. Wasn't it Gucci?

"Not the garage," Taz replies. He glares at me in the rearview window. No one can glare quite like Taz-san. He is, by the way, my driver, my bodyguard, and one of the grumpiest people on the planet.

He, actually, doesn't like candy –at- all. None. And believe me, I've tried to tempt him with –everything-.

"Please?" Kumagoro and I give him the biggest, roundest, most pathetic eyes we can. Nothing quite like being on a sugar high –and- being tipsy at the same time. It almost makes you...feel bold.

Maybe this time... Maybe this time I could... Surely today will be the day that I call out to him...

"I said no."

"Taz, please..." This time, I can feel it, the choke in my voice as what little remains of my genki façade slips away. "I need to...see him. If I could just take one look...then tonight, I'd be able to sleep without nightmares. If I could just...for a minute...or two..."

Tazhiko sighs and starts the car. He'll go to the garage. I know he will. "This is becoming –sick-, Sakuma-san. It's really not good..."

I have nothing to say in response. I can only bury my face in Kumagoro as I sigh in relief.

Beyond the tinted windows of my car, the world becomes a blur, like the spinning haze of a nicotine rush. The heartbeat of Tokyo races faster than any other city in the world. Crystals pump in her veins, sometimes sugar, sometimes ice. You can let your eyes unfocus, let the lights run into one another. It reminds me of a carousel. The dizzying pursuit to get somewhere, but always ending back where you started.

Was the journey to nowhere...fun?

My heart, too, beats faster and faster, until my arms and legs ache from it. No, they really ache from the anticipation. Or, perhaps, it is from...longing.

In the night, you cry out, and stretch your arms into the darkness, hoping that...just this once, the world of dreams will be kind. Frantically seeking arms, warmth, breath. Wishing only to be tangled into another's limbs, but waking up tangled only in satin sheets.

"Why don't you just tell him, Sakuma-san?" Tazhiko grumbles. He always, -always- asks me the exact same question about three blocks from the garage. Maybe he thinks that, one of these days, I'll give him a different answer.

"No no no no no no." What if he laughs at me? What if he...doesn't say anything at all? What if...

I can live like this. It is better to not know, then to be rejected. I can sustain myself on a seed of hope. It is better to reach out into the darkness and think...that someday it –might- be, than to –know- that it never, ever, will be.

Do you think it is pathetic, Kumagoro? Is it wrong to write songs for him, and to sing them onstage in the hopes that somewhere...somewhere beyond the lights and the swaying bodies of the crowd...he might be watching, and smiling?

You don't? That's a relief, Kumagoro. Kisses! Bunny kisses!

I rub noses with Kumagoro as Tazhiko rolls down his window to take the garage ticket. Even the musty smell of the six-floor garage sends a shiver up my back. At this time of day, the setting sun shoots rays of gold between the concrete columns, creating long boxy shapes on the pavement, like light-Legos. I lower my own window to reach my hand out into the air, batting at the flickering speckles of dust hanging in the air. Most of the cars are gone by now. I think this garage belongs to the office building next door. All of the little secretaries, whose fate it is to bring coffee to stuffy bosses, have long since returned to their flats to eat ice cream and watch the soap operas they recorded during the day. All of the stern businessmen, who spent the day totaling figures from last quarter, are now in the suburbs, watering their lawns.

It is only me...and Tazhiko...and the garage attendant, Heisuke-san.

Heisuke-san's favorite candy is toffee. Soft, not hard.

Tazhiko parks the car and picks up his newspaper. I hear him rustle through it, attempting to find the obituaries (which always make him feel glad to be alive, I suppose), while I unbuckle my seatbelt. "Fifteen minutes," he mumbles, "No more."

The sound of my footsteps reverberates in the empty garage. Hollow and dull. What a brilliant metaphor for my life.

Well, except for you, Kumagoro. You're still protecting my last little shiny sparkle, aren't you?

How did it come to this? On what day did my smile...once so genuine and free...become replaced with this false mask? When did the well of energy which once propelled me through the world...dry up? Faking it...one day at a time...

It gets harder and harder every morning to get up and smile at the sun.

I know every inch of this elevator. It's covered in carpeting, you know? Grey carpeting with little white specks. I think someone wanted to discourage graffiti. But, it didn't really work. Someone has made a series of cigarette burns in the carpeting...in the shape of a smiley face.

I run my fingers over the fire-inflicted smile while I wait to go up to the fifth level.

Even elevators can smile. Why is it so hard for me?

Ping!

Fifth floor.

My lips feel so dry, while my hands seem quite clammy. Why does the moisture always go to the –wrong- places?

Twenty four steps. Only twenty four. One for each hour since last we were here. Wipe my hands on my shirt. Don't stumble. There's a bit of a step there. Past the old beat up red truck with two flat tires. It's been here forever, it seems. Completely forgotten. Past the overhead light that flickers, just a little. You have to –really- watch it for a long time to get the pattern down just right. Past the green sign marked with an arrow and the word "Exit".

Just in case...so you don't get stuck in the garage, going around in circles...for the rest of your life.

Only thirteen steps left.

I can see it now...the building across the road. Colored like stale graham crackers. Private balconies protruding proudly out into space. If buildings were people, I'm pretty sure the balconies would be nipples.

Apartments. His apartment. I'll be able to see it in...three...steps.

Two. One.

I hide in the shadow of the concrete pillar. I'm sure he can't see us, Kumagoro. I'm very, very, very sure. He won't be able to see us. He never does...

But, where is he? Why isn't he outside yet? It's time for him to be outside... And...

What if something happened to him? What if he was kidnapped or hurt or... What if...oh god, Kumagoro, what if he –moved-?

But just as Kumagoro is about to work himself into full panic mode, the glass door slides open.

He steps into the glow of the sunset...

Golden.

Like a ticket to the Chocolate Factory.

My primary obsession...

Nakano Hiroshi.

* * *

I don't know when it began, when I started to notice him. But, there he was, beside Shu-chan, like a sturdy pole keeping the waving flag from fluttering away in the wind. There always seemed to be...a quietness about him, a kindness, a giving nature that you don't often find in the music business. Honest and forthright and...wise. A good friend to Shuichi, and believe me, Shuichi can use all the friends he can get.

Kumagoro and I thought Hiroshi-kun was probably a pretty nice, alright guy. But, we didn't spend too many brain cells on it. Nope. Not until that day...

I had been up on the roof of NG, which is where I go to write lyrics, because you can get some fairly good inspiration when you're pretending you've conquered Tohma's empire and had him dragged off to the dungeon in chains. (I'm just kidding. Kumagoro and I, we love Tohma like bananas love splits.) Anyway, we'd just had some good thoughts about a song, and we were hopping down the stairs, two at a time. Two is ALWAYS better than ONE! I buy two of everything good. Just in –case-.

So, down the stairs we went, hippity hop, hippity hop. Trippity hop.

I say "trippity", you see, because at that point, we almost tripped over a humanoid form huddled at the base of the staircase. A lump. A lump of Nakano Hiroshi, to be exact.

His brown hair was draped over his arms, arms which had locked around his knees to clutch them to his chest. His body pressed up against the railing for support, and with that olive green army jacket hugging his torso, he looked to me a great deal like one of those guys in the park that don't have anywhere to sleep but a bench.

"Hiroshi-kun?" I didn't really know what to say. I'm not good with sad people. Nope. I'm more of a happy-people person. "Are you sleepy, na no da? There's some couches on the third floor if you want to nap or..."

But, the lump did not move.

So, obviously, Kumagoro had to go to work. He's a lot like Superman, Kumagoro is. On the outside, Mild Mannered Bunny. But, then, in times of crisis... It's a rabbit, it's a hare, no, IT'S SUPERBUNNY!

Gingerly, I slid down to sit next to Hiroshi-kun on the steps. Marble stairs, you know? Or maybe some kind of stone resembling marble. Nonetheless, they were very cold! Tohma keeps it like ten degrees below Kelvin in NG. I really don't think that can be very good for the instruments.

Kumagoro waddled up Hiroshi-kun's hip, over his side, and came to sit on Hiroshi-kun's elbow. "Kumagoro wants to know if you are –sad-! If you –are- sad, Kumagoro will cheer you up with a joke, na no da! Kumagoro knows all the best jokes in the entire –world-."

A muffled noise came from the direction of Hiroshi-kun's head. I'm still not sure if he said, "Yes" or "No" or "Go away" or "Mmm. Waffles." But, Kumagoro, being the SuperBunny that he is, would not be deterred!

"Alright, since you don't know Bunny Language, I will translate for you." I nodded a bit, mostly to myself, but also to Kumagoro. "Once upon a time, there was this pirate. He wasn't feeling very good, so he decided to go to the doctor. When he got there, the doctor took one look at him and said, 'Mr. Pirate, did you know that you have a ship's steering wheel in your pants?' Well, the pirate nodded. Indeed, the steering wheel in his pants had been troubling him. He looked at the doctor and said, in a very stern, but piratey tone...'Arrrr. Tis drivin' me nuts!'"

Kumagoro slapped his knee. I slapped my knee. And Hiroshi-kun...

Well, I think he laughed. His shoulders shook a little bit. And I heard a mumble which could have been words, or a sob, actually. So, really, Kumagoro might have made him cry with that one, I am not sure.

"You always think of others, Sakuma-san." He looked at me then, picked his head up and looked right at me. I think his face might have been red, possibly tearstained, but all I can really remember are his eyes. Lost. Hurt. Confused. "How do you do it? How do you do it without losing yourself?"

"I..." I have no self to lose. Everything you see is merely smoke and mirrors. I lost Sakuma Ryuichi a long time ago. Sacrificed on the Altar of Cool to the Gods of Music. You can only become somebody when you are resigned to forever be...no one. That way, you become like a chameleon, able to be painted to match the times. "I am –very- hungry! I think they are having pudding today in the NG cafeteria! I need pudding now, okay? You need pudding, too, Hiroshi-kun. I can tell. You're feeling down because you are suffering from a lack of Vitamin P. The "P" is for Pudding!"

"Ah...hai...uh..."

Well, after that, I pulled Hiroshi-kun down to the cafeteria and attempted to feed him pudding. Did you know that they have Pudding Day in the NG cafeteria just because of ME? I think it was one of the riders when I renewed my contract last time. Hehehe. I like to put things in there that make Tohma nuts, na no da.

(But, of course, Kumagoro and I, we love Tohma like Scooby Doo loves sandwiches.)

Except, Hiroshi-kun did not eat pudding. He ate noodles. How boring.

But, I did not think of Hiroshi-kun as boring anymore. No. Not really. It's kinda strange how you don't really think of people as people sometimes...until you see that they can break, or you see them sad, or lonely, or...

Well, being human.

So, after that, I started watching Hiroshi-kun more carefully. Started thinking of him as...a person, rather than a flagpole. Watching the way he was around others. Listening to the way he played guitar. I wanted to know...what could have made such a seemingly strong person so sad. I suppose I could have just asked him, but for some reason, I was afraid.

And I just became more and more afraid. Afraid to look at him for too long. Scared to talk to him. Worried that he...would figure out that I...

Day by day, week by week...

Was developing what Kumagoro calls a 'crush'. And what Taz-san calls an 'unhealthy obsession'.

Arrr. 'Tis drivin' me nuts!

* * *

Nakano Hiroshi. There he is, right across this...gulf...abyss...chasm. The gap between the garage and Hiroshi-kun's apartment building seems to suddenly put the Grand Canyon to shame. So...far away. And yet, I can see every detail in High Definition Digital Television.

Wisps of hair that glow deep amber in the radiant sunset... I can only imagine how they would smell like honey, like those lace-honey candies you can buy at fairs. If I were close to him, right now, I would bury my face in his hair, and try to drown in those golden-brown waves. Is it soft like little baby chicks? Is it coarse but strong like the frayed end of a thick rope?

Would it fall in my face if he were laying over me?

He stands there, shirtless, leaning against the railing, looking off into nothingness. That chest... So lean and toned. Kissed by sunlight in the faintest of tans. A lighter shade than my own chest, but longer, more wiry. What would it be like to be pressed against his bare torso? I try to imagine that succulent warmth by pressing myself more tightly against the concrete column, still heated from the day's sun. Is this perverse? Am I completely hentai for watching him there, but imagining him –here-?

A whispered groan escapes my lips. Perhaps I should not push –certain- parts of my anatomy quite so firmly against the pillar. But, I can't help it. Once you start, there's no way to stop. I shift my weight helplessly as my eyes alight on the most fascinating part of the show.

Hiroshi-kun's hands.

Every finger, every vein, every nail. Palm. Knuckles. Tendons. Wrist. His hands are amazing. Long and limber, practiced and strong. Such wisdom and kindness as I have never known sits contained within those skillful hands. Have you seen him at concerts? Have you seen him play? The things he does to that guitar... Each movement calculated to make my mouth water. Every chord strikes a needful vibration right beneath my stomach, daring me, tempting me...calling to me.

Candy Apple Red...

I know his entire routine. He finishes his drink on the balcony, letting the condensation moisten his fingers. Is it alcohol? No, I don't think Hiroshi-kun is that big of a drinker. Maybe he is. I don't know –anything- about him. Leaning against the railing, he gazes absently into the distance, as if trying to use the setting sun to burn out his own retinas.

Look at me. Please, just this once...look at –me-. Somehow, just –know- that I am here, in the darkness, watching you. Look at me and smile.

No, don't.

I need...to be saved...from this torture. This straining, yearning, unending torture. This concrete is a poor substitute...for him.

If you could just...free me from the prison. I am Willy Wonka, completely alone, in a CandyLand made for two.

Then I see it. He reaches into the apartment and pulls out that guitar. -That- guitar. It must be special, it must be. He never plays it at concerts. He only takes it out, as far as I know, when the sun is setting.

He cradles the guitar gingerly, softly. They say that a musician treats his instrument like a lover, and I have never known this to be more true than in what I see before me. As those magical hands run over the strings, coaxing a crystal stream of notes to leap into the chasm, I feel my body go slack. The space between us draws itself closed, from a canyon to a breath.

Are these tears of happiness which are falling onto the dusty pavement of the garage? Or are they droplets of sadness? Are these trembles that overtake my body ones of despair, or of joy? I know not. But, the shivering, shuddering kiss of music will sustain me just a little while longer. Every wavering note...

From Hiroshi-kun's candy apple red guitar...

Reaches deep into my CandyLand prison...

Wraps around my throat...

And strangles me beautifully.

* * *

In Our Next Chapters: Why was Hiro crying? What terrible secret does he hide? Will Ryuichi gather up the courage to do something about his crush? Kidnapping! Arson! Seduction! Hilarity! Angst! Pie? No, Kumagoro, let's leave the pie out of it. The dark underbelly of Bad Luck is revealed! Heh. I said –belly-. Mmm. Belly.

Special Thanks to: All the peeps at gravimusemeet on LJ, and especially Rula/fel. No evil Shuichi yet...but soon, I promise.


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